Sammy's Night Out

Sammy's Night Out

(6,757 words)

When the final bell rings, my classmates stand and my heart drops. I have only a few hours left before it starts again. My peers filter out of the classroom quickly. The halls flood with excited students happily chatting away about weekend plans. I can't think that far ahead. My mind is stuck on tonight.

I don't even realize I've made it to my locker until I'm pulled from my thoughts by someone shouting my name.

"Sammy!" Lindsey is trotting over, purple messenger bag rocking against her thigh with every step. "You want to hang out tonight?"

I shake my head. I'm lying.

There is almost nothing I want to do more than hang out with her tonight. To drive over to her family's two story, three-bedroom home on Oliver Street. I want to park next to her mom's white Highlander, careful to avoid whatever scooter or tricycle her little brothers are sure to have left in the driveway. I want to lug in my four-hundred-page geography textbook only to abandon it on her kitchen counter in favor of more important things like Netflix and ice cream Sundaes. I want to analyze everything Ethan Cord said to her at last night's yearbook fundraiser in case we can uncover some declaration of love in the hesitation between, "'Sup," and, "Cool." I want to fall asleep on her couch watching some dumb horror movie and wake to eat sugary cereal and prepackaged mini muffins.

But I can't. Because I am the dumb horror movie. And tonight is The Change.

***

I arrive home before Dad, which is surprising. The last night I changed he took the whole day off work. Our house is small and old but charming. Every few years Dad freshens up the exterior paint--buttermilk yellow with a dark green trim--to keep the place feeling "cheery" as he says.

The living quarters are all on the first floor. The front door opens to the living room and the kitchen is visible past the half wall separating the two. Down a narrow hall is the bathroom and two small bedrooms, mine and his.

There is an attic where Dad keeps his old fishing supplies and the last few boxes of Mom's stuff, dusty with blooms of green mildew at the corners. There is also a cellar where the washing machine and dryer sit. A few months back Dad also kept a little workshop down there, not much but a work bench and a table saw and a few projects eternally "in progress." But he learned his lesson last time and has removed all the sharp and potentially dangerous items.

Now, a cot occupies the space where the workbench once stood. The table with a broken leg has been replaced with one of those toilet chairs old people use when they're too decrepit to make it to the bathroom. He did put up a couple posters to "liven up" the bare concrete walls. One is my favorite band, The Davie Wringer Band, featuring the members on stage with their respective instruments. Front and center is Davie Wringer himself belting into a microphone the lyrics to some song, maybe my favorite song, "Good Crows, Bad Lands." The final poster is simply a black background with the words, "You Rock!" in bold, red, block letters.

I had asked him last week about putting a TV down there. I could bring my Play Station to help pass the lonely hours away. But he said nothing expensive was going down there. Not after last time.

I walk into the house, screen door slapping shut behind me. I drop my backpack on the armchair next to the door. It lands on a pile of jackets and newspapers and other miscellaneous items that live on the chair so that no one ever actually sits on it. I hang my keys on the hook over the armchair. The googly eyes of my frog key chain loll back and forth as they swing there a moment before settling into place.

If I had to describe the "theme" in which my dad has decorated the house, I would regretfully have to say "cowboy." He has a horseshoe over the door and a painting of a cowboy clutching his hat as the horse he rides bucks wildly hanging on the wall behind the couch. I'm not sure where he got the painting, but I refuse to believe it was from anywhere other than a thrift store or garage sale. It's one of those items that you pick up at Goodwill and try to imagine what kind of person would purchase it new but can't.

The blanket on the couch also depicts a horse which you would be able to see were it hung neatly on the back of the couch rather than crumpled up in the corner, tangled with a few used tissues from when my allergies kicked up last Friday. Or maybe it was the Friday before?

I move past the mild mess in the living room to the mild mess in the kitchen. There is no theme in the kitchen, it's just a kitchen. On the dark laminate counters sit cups of random utensils, spatulas, ladles and the like, pushed back up against the wall between the microwave and the toaster. You can't run the microwave and the toaster at the same time without blowing a fuse. That can be hard to remember, though, which is why the microwave's clock is perpetually blinking the wrong time, like it is now.

I take a few steps in and open the window. I have to lean over a dirty plate speckled with toast crumbs and bits of scrambled eggs from this morning's breakfast. Or maybe it was yesterday's? A pleasant breeze of fresh spring air wafts through the open window. Hopefully it will blow away the smell coming from the dishes in the sink. Maybe I should clean up a little. But not now, I think as I head toward the back door.

Dad does a good job of keeping the grass in the yard neatly mowed, at least in the middle where it still grows in large patches. He has three push mowers, all of them ancient and barely functional. But he amuses himself moving parts between them so at least one actually works and that is enough to get him through the summer.

Our chicken coop is in the back, left corner of the yard. It is a rickety cube-shaped structure constructed by my dad when I was a kid. I remember what it looked like when the plywood was new and a bright yellowish-tan color. It wasn't all that impressive back then and is now even less so, the wood having been weathered to a dull grey color and rotted through in places.

The chickens, five in total, grow excited when they see me. They ruffle their feathers and let out friendly bawks as I lift the lid on the metal trashcan where we keep their food. Inside the can is a white plastic pail. I scoop up enough of the grain mixture to fill the pail and carry it across the yard.

The coop is encircled by wire fencing which is as much for keeping predators out as it is for keeping the chickens in. I stand outside the fence and reach my hand into the pail. I throw handfuls of feed into the enclosure, careful to spread it out so the chickens won't start pecking each other, fighting over the same piles of food. The chickens scatter, running off in different directions to chase the bits of grain and dried corn. Once the pail is empty, I watch them for a few minutes. I smile at the goofy way their heads bob up and down as they peck at the ground and the awkwardness of their waddling gait as the run from one small pile of feed to the next with a profound sense of urgency.

After a little while I return the pail to the can and go back inside.

***

I'm in the bathroom when Dad gets home, studying my features in the mirror. I'm an average girl with sandy brown hair hanging flat and unstyled against a plain face. But ever since I started plucking my unibrow and the thin line of hairs which grow on my upper lip, I don't consider myself an ugly girl. My jaw is a little wide, maybe, but I suppose nothing like it will be later. I try to imagine what my face will look like tonight but fail. I wonder if other animals know what they look like. Certainly, the chickens don't. They will attack a mirror if you put it in front of them, mistaking their own reflection for some sort of rival interloper.

I am pushing my cheeks together and trying to elongate my lips when I hear Dad's truck pull into the driveway. A few seconds after the engine cuts the front door opens. I step out of the bathroom as the familiar slap of the screen door closing cuts through the house. I pad into the kitchen where Dad is dropping an armful of supplies onto the kitchen table.

"Hey, kiddo." He looks up as I turn the corner.

"Hi," I reply flatly, suspiciously eying the haul he has brought.

"I got you snacks!" He lifts the biggest bag of beef jerky I have ever seen, notably not mentioning the thick metal chain piled on the tabletop like a coiled snake.

I point to it. "What's that?"

Dad is only twenty-one years older than me. He has a wiry frame but is still strong. His hair is the same color as mine but he keeps it short and unbrushed so it sticks out in wild tufts from his head. In the last couple of years, it has started becoming thin and wispy on top. He is wearing his usual uniform of a beat-up t-shirt, jeans and work boots.

He glances at the chain and his easy smile grows tight.

"Oh, it's just..." He hesitates. "After last time, I think we really need to prioritize safety first."

"I don't know how I feel about that," I lie. I don't like it. No one wants to be chained up in the basement. He must realize this as he attempts to offer reassurance.

"It'll be alright, kid." He reaches out and tousles my hair. "It's just one night."

When he drops his hand back to his side, I lift mine to smooth out the strands of my hair I'm sure he knocked out of place,

"I guess..." is all I say in response.

***

Dad heats up two microwave meals for dinner. His is Sailsbury steak with mashed potatoes and green beans. Mine is country fried chicken with a biscuit and mix of peas and carrots. We eat on the couch and watch TV. Dad's favorite show is a sitcom about an "All-American" family. Most episodes the dad gets himself or his family into some sort of comedic pickle due to his refusal to accept the changing times. Dad chuckles along with the canned audience laughter but I'm too distracted to follow inane high jinks.

I take a bite or two of chicken then push peas and carrot cubes around my tray until the end credits start to roll.

I jump up and hold my hand out.

"All done?" I ask.

"Thanks," Dad says as he hands me his empty tray.

I take it and hurry to throw them both out before he notices how little I ate.

He stands, wiping his hands on his jeans.

"Well, I guess I better finish getting your room set up."

He doesn't like saying "basement" when he is talking about locking me up. He takes the chain and a couple of tools and heads downstairs.

I decide to take a shower, a hot one. I hope the heat will soothe my nerves the way it might soothe an aching muscle. It doesn't. But the run of the water over me and the smell of my strawberry kiwi shampoo helps ground me in normalcy for at least a few minutes.

When I'm done I put on my outfit for the night, one of Dad's oldest and rattiest t-shirts and a pair of grey sweats about three sizes too big for me. Last time, I had aimed for comfort, wearing my favorite pair of pajamas, the ones with a pattern of bananas and happy monkeys on them. But I don't have those anymore and I learned my lesson.

My hair is still wet and soaking the back of the t-shirt when I head downstairs.

Dad is just finishing up. He has filled a large metal bowl with water and is pouring the bag of jerky into a matching bowl next to it. He looks up when I step off the last stair, bare feet hitting the cold, concrete floor.

"Hey, kiddo," he says, "what do you think?" He gestures around the space.

The jovial expression on his face is meant to lighten the mood. To trick us both into thinking this is just a fun adventure, like when I was ten and would camp in a tent in the back yard. However, a well-meaning smile is not enough to disguise the horror of the situation. He has made the cot up with a pillow and a cheap, white sheet. He has placed a scent diffuser on the hanging shelf behind the toilet chair. But the most noticeable addition is the heavy chain snaking its way from the base of the cot to where he has bolted it to the wall. I walk over and pick up the end, holding it out to show him the metal band.

"Is that a shackle?" I ask incredulously.

He gives a nervous smile and shrugs. "Or you could call it a cuff."

I scowl at him. "Where did you even get a shackle?"

"Amazon. Delivered it next day."

Something primal in me tries to surface. It's urging me to run. Bolt up the stairs, out the door, get as far from here as I can. But there's no running from myself.

I sigh and try not to think about what I'm resigning myself to. I sit on the cot and pull my legs up wrapping my arms around my knees. Dad sits next to me and puts his hand on my shoulder.

"I know it's not easy, kid," he says even though there is no way he knows anything about what this is like.

"It's whatever," I tell him, not meeting his gaze.

Dad sighs. I could make this easier on him. I could try harder to hide the fear and the anger he must already know I'm feeling. But I don't have the strength for it.

"It's getting late," Dad says, "I guess we should get you buckled in here."

If I were capable, I might have laughed.

Dad picks up the shackle. It feels surreal watching him close it around my ankle. It looks like a thing out of a storybook, not real life. Even the key he uses to lock it is big and black and iron. I try to think of myself as a princess just waiting for my prince to come rescue me. But princess or high schooler, I'm a prisoner now.

"Is that okay?" Dad asks, "Not too tight?"

It's not too tight, but I can't quite say it's okay. It feels heavy, heavier than I would have expected. The metal is cold and rubs against my skin in a way that doesn't hurt but is annoying and I know will only get more annoying as the night goes on.

"It's not too tight," I tell him.

"Great!" He pats my knee, but he can't hide his nervous energy, it slips out from the corners of his smile and lingers in the watery sheen of his brown eyes. "Anything else I can get you?"

I shake my head. A cure would be nice. But I'm sure not even Amazon has that.

***

The basement is quiet after Dad leaves. Occasionally I hear a rattling from the pipes, or a creak from the ceiling as Dad moves around upstairs. Other than that, it is silent. I lie in the cot and entertain myself with my phone. Dad didn't want me to have it, but I promised him that if it broke, I would use my own money to buy a new one. I have a lot saved up from Christmases and birthdays.

I scroll through videos online. Here is a hot girl doing a dance with about three steps, two of them are ass shaking. Next. Here is a woman screaming at a fast-food worker standing in the drive through window.

"Give me my nuggets, you bitch!!!!" Next.

Here is a cat. It has gotten itself into a precarious position sitting on top of a cabinet. It sizes up the jump between its current position and a nearby cupboard with an open door. It misjudges. It lands on the cupboard door, hanging from its front paws as the door swings closed. The cat drops to the counter below. Next.

I don't realize I'm getting hot until there is already a healthy layer of perspiration on my forehead and upper lip. Terror reaches its hand around my gut and squeezes. Fear gnaws at the edges of my brain. I try to hold it at bay by focusing on the videos. Look, here is a guy with a bike and a GoPro careening down the side of a mountain, barely a path to follow, unknown danger around every corner.

My vision blurs. The heat is excruciating. I kick off the thin sheet and stand up, putting my phone in the pocket of my sweatpants. I feel the blood coursing through my veins, hear the roar of it in my ears. Thud. Thud. Thud. My heart beats quickly, loudly. I pace. My muscles are cramping. I can see them ripple and bulge beneath my skin. I hear a moan. It came from me. The feeling of pin pricks starts in my toes and quickly engulfs my entire body as hairs start to sprout from every pore. It is the same color as mine, but thicker and coarser.

My face begins to morph. The pain is sharp. It saturates me to the bone. My gums tear to accommodate new teeth, bigger and meaner than before. My chin juts forward. My nose grows until it is long enough for me to see it, wet and black, at the bottom of my field of vision.

My arms break. My knees break. I fall to the floor. My spine breaks. Someone is screaming. Someone is dying. Is it me? Everything goes black.

* * *

I smell meat. And salt. I smell water, hard water with a metallic under-scent. And I smell chemicals. The odor bites, stinging the edges of my nostrils. I don't like it.

I open my eyes. The light hits me and hurts. I get used to it. I am lying on ground made of rock. Rock edges on all sides. No escape? Fear itches at my muscles, urging me to run but...meat? Hunger is in my stomach. I shift my position. Now I am on my belly, hind legs curled up, front paws out before me. I turn my head in the direction of meat. But what meat is this?

I stand. I can walk on my hind legs, but on all four is sturdier, faster, feels better. Caution, I step forward lightly. I turn back with surprise and look at my hind leg where I felt a tug. There is a strange circle around my leg. Fear. No, let me see what this is. I drop my hip to the ground. I stretch the leg with the circle out and bend my body so my nose is close enough to get a good sniff.

I sniff.

It has the metal smell. I growl and jerk my nose away. Fear. No, I just need to get this off. I turn my snout back. I bite the circle. It is hard. I bite again and again. I bite one more time. It is too hard. Fear.

I jump back up, four paws planted firmly on the ground. There is a way up. A hill of sharp angles. I do not know if up means out, but I will see.

I run.

My hind leg is caught. It jerks back as I leap forward. Pain. I yelp. I turn back and bite the hard circle in anger. It is still too hard and it does not cry out. Fear. No, I need to escape. I can find the way. I growl at the circle because I do not like it. I see that the way the circle grabs me, something grabs the circle. It is a line of smaller circles interlocked with each other. I reach out my front paw. The toes on my front paws are longer and thinner than the ones on my hind paws. They have long, sharp nails for protection. And slicing meat. I can bend them in a way to grab the line of small circles. I lift it. It is not very heavy. I pull it. It is stuck.

I sniff along the line and follow it to where it is trapped. The last little circle is being grabbed by a loop attached to the solid edge of this place. I sniff the loop; it has the metal smell. I lick it. It has the metal taste too. I growl because I do not like it. I bite the loop. It is hard but it wiggles just slightly. It is not stuck too well. I bite again, holding it between my teeth and move my head up and down. It wiggles more. I chew on the loop this way until it is very loose. Then I wrap the toes of both my front paws around the line and pull as hard as I can. The last circle gets unstuck. Freedom! Run!

I turn to run--but wait. Meat? I sniff the air again. I can still smell it, and the salt. I follow the scent. The meat is contained in half a shiny sphere with the metal smell. It is strange meat, dry, wrinkly and in little chunks. But I like chunks of meat, so I lower my snout and take a mouthful. It is not good meat--tough, chewy and old. I eat it all anyway.

And now, escape. I run to the hill of sharp angles. I look up and see another solid edge. No way out. Fear. This edge is not rock, though. It is wood. I could break wood. I run.

I slam my shoulder into the wood edge. I feel it bend from my force, but it doesn't break. It does hit back though. Pain. I growl. I back up, down the hill and run again, even faster. I hit the edge again. Pain. I feel it bend. This time I hear wood splintering. Again, I back up and run. Big splintering this time, wood breaking. I don't even feel the pain. There is a small hole now. I can smell the air from the other side.

Another noise. I freeze. I tilt my head and listen.

"Sammy?!"

An animal cry. I know this animal. This place has reeked of them since I woke up. Human. I growl because I do not like them.

"Sammy, it's Dad."

The animal cries again. I roar back.

Fear, the smell of it oozes off the human. It leaks through the hole I made. The human is afraid. I back up down the hill and charge. I hit the wood and it breaks. I barrel through. Splinters stick in my hide and sting. But I don't think about them. There is me and a human and humans are dangerous.

"Sammy! It's okay, it's Dad! Calm down!"

The human is roaring at me. I lift to my hind legs and roar at it back. I beat my front paws against my chest. I gnash my teeth at it. Standing, I am much bigger than it.

The human's eyes grow wide. Its body is shaking. I smell the fear. It turns to run. No. No escape.

I throw out my front paws and wrap them around the human's neck and shoulders. It screams. I roar even louder and lift it. It wriggles in my grasp. It beats its hands against my paws and kicks its legs.

"Sammy stop! It's me! It's Dad! I love you!"

I throw the human. It hits the solid edge of this place and falls to the ground. It doesn't shout or move anymore. Good.

Hunger is in my stomach again. Human meat is not good. Stringy, bland. I don't like it. But it is better than hungry. I step toward the human--wait! I sniff the air. Do I smell... chicken?

The smell of chicken comes from the opposite direction of the human. The human is still not moving. It was a weak human. I am not scared. I follow the chicken.

The chicken smell is clouded with a mix of many smells. Too many for me to figure them all out. All the scents come from a cube the smell and--I lick it--taste of plastic. Inside the cube, right on top, is a treasure. Meat. The chicken is coated in something. I don't know what it is--not meat, but good. It is hardly more than a bite and hunger is still in my stomach.

I feel wind. I look up and sniff. Wind is coming through a hole in the solid edge. I stand on my hind legs and lean over a wooden ledge to stick my front paw out of the hole. My paw is blocked. I squint and see a thin membrane covers the hole. It has the metal smell but is thin enough to let air through. I punch my paw through it easily.

I barely fit through the hole. I have to twist to angle my shoulders right and my haunches get stuck. I kick my legs in panic and squeeze my sides to be small as possible. I make it through. I tumble out and hit the ground. The line of small circles is still attached to me. It falls out the hole and lands on top of me. Pain.

I smell spring. I smell the thaw in the wet earth. I smell the freshness of buds and new grass. I inhale deeply. I also smell more chicken. I growl because I like it.

* * *

The chickens are protected. They have taken little things, maybe sticks with the metal smell, and stuck them together to make a barrier around their territory. I stick my long toes through the holes in what they made and pull it apart. It is easy. Chickens are dumb. I do it quietly. I can smell these chickens are alive. I listened and I know they are sleeping. Sleeping chickens are easier to catch than awake chickens. I don't want to wake them up.

I stay low. I creep toward the wooden cube. I know the chickens are inside. There is a small hole in the wood. I will never fit through it. But I could reach my front leg through. Maybe I will grab one with my long toes. I squat on my hind legs next to the small hole. I move very slowly. I do not make a sound. I reach through the hole.

I feel around. I pat the ground. I touch dry grass and smooth wood. I reach to the side. The tips of my toes brush something. Feathers. I do not think. I grab.

Bawk! BawkBawkBawk!

They are awake now. I squeeze. Bones break in my grasp. I pull my arm out and I am holding a chicken. Dead now. I eat it in two bites. Delicious. Another chicken comes running out of the hole. I snatch it as it runs past me. It pecks at me. I squeeze and it stops. I eat this one too.

The other chickens are still inside. Chickens are not as smart as humans. The things they build are not as strong. I know I can break the wood around their nest easily. So, I do. I slash through the thin wood and when I can get a good grasp, pry it apart. Their nest is destroyed and the chickens are scared. I can smell their fear. They run. They are fast but not too fast. I pounce and catch one between my teeth. It squirms through the first bite but not the second. Two are left. One is broken, running in circles. Not defensive. I grab its neck and squeeze. It's still kicking when I swallow it down.

The last chicken has escaped out of the hole I made in their barrier. I look up just in time to see it disappearing into the tall grass near the tree line. I will chase it. I tense to spring forward.

"Sammy!"

I stop and turn. The human is back up. It has taken an aggressive stance on the other side of the clearing, feet planted firmly apart. It is holding a big stick in its arms, pointing it at me. The stick has the metal smell.

"Sammy, you need to calm down."

Its sounds are quiet and slow now, but I can still smell its fear. A trick? I growl at it.

"This isn't who you are, Sammy. You're a good kid. You just need to relax."

The chicken is getting away. I need to kill the human and get the chicken. But something is strange in the way the human points its stick at me. Fear.

I leap through the hole. I run away from the human.

"Sammy! Stop! Please! Don't!"

I run until I cannot hear its noises anymore.

***

It is nice in the outside. The sky glitters and twinkles. The ground is soft and feels good between my toes. The air is clean. I lumber in whichever direction I think I should go. I sniff. Whenever the human smell gets too strong, I turn away. With four chickens in my belly there is not much room for hunger. But the chickens pass through quickly and hunger takes to beating against the lining of my stomach again.

I need meat.

I sniff around. I smell squirrels and rabbits. Too small. I keep creeping. I listen and I sniff until I catch the scent of something big. Deer. Deer are quicker than chickens or humans. They can smell almost as good as me. I have to get as close as possible before it notices me.

I follow the scent slowly. I do not make a sound when my paws hit the ground. There it is! I press myself behind a tree so it will not see me. I peak around to watch it.

The deer is sleeping. It lies with its flank against the ground, legs tucked up, neck bent and head resting on its side. It has no antlers. It is big, though. Big enough to stop the hunger. I will eat it.

I step out from behind the tree. I move forward, slowly, slowly.

Crick.

A twig has broken under my paw. The deer will hear it. The deer's head is already lifted. I lunge forward. I am ready to run.

The deer runs too. The deer runs fast. It knows this place better than me. Its thin legs stretch then bend as it clomps across the earth. It leaps over fallen logs. It darts around trees and takes sharp turns. But my muscles are strong. My legs are just as long. And I am hungrier.

Trees fly past me in a blur. Branches, bushes and vines reach out for me. I tear through them. My paws kick up a cloud of dirt behind me. The deer is getting tired. It is getting slower; I know it. I am closer. I smell its meat. I pounce. I land on its back and dig my claws into its flesh. The deer makes an awful sound. It bucks. I squeeze my back legs to stay on it. My claws sink deeper as I pull myself forward. The deer bucks again. It falls to the side. I roll. I am on top of it. Its eyes are big, black circles. It smells like fear. I open my mouth wide. I am salivating so much already, drool seeps through the spaces between my sharp teeth. I chomp down on the deer's throat. It is moving wildly beneath me. Panicked jerks, anything to try to escape. It cannot escape. With jaw firmly locked I throw my head back and rip its throat out.

Blood spurts from the wound in its neck and drips from the piece I hold in my mouth. It wets my chops. The smell of it fills the air. I growl because I like it. The deer is still now. I can eat it easily. I hunker down over the body and begin to feast.

There is still a lot of meat left when I hear something.

Crick!

I freeze. I lift my nose and sniff the air. The wind is blowing in the wrong direction. I can smell what is in front of me but not what is behind. Fear.

I turn around and bare my teeth. Nothing is there. No, something is there. I can feel it. I stay tense, positioned to pounce as soon as I see movement. The wind kicks up in the opposite direction this time and I smell it. Bear.

Fear.

Bears are big. They have sharp claws and sharp teeth like me. They are strong. As strong as me? Maybe. I am faster. But if I run it will eat my deer. The hunger in my stomach says no.

Then I see it. It is just movement at first, a shadow in the dark. Then it gets closer. It is more than big. It is huge. It is as big as me. It is covered in dirt and burrs and smells terrible. It sees me and stops its movement. It looks at me. It turns its head and looks down at the deer. It looks back at me. I snarl.

Suddenly, the bear raises up so it is standing on its hind legs. It roars. The sound of it shakes the trees. Fear.

I do the same. Both on our hind legs we are the same height but the bear is much wider than me. It drops back to all fours and charges. I roar. This deer is mine.

When it is close enough, I jump to the side and avoid its gnashing teeth. I swing my front paw at it and slash it with my claws. It lets out a terrifying, guttural sound. It raises back up on its two legs. It lifts one powerful arm and brings it down toward me. Its claws are thick and sharp and covered in mud. I raise my front leg and block its blow. But I am distracted and don't notice its other arm. Pain shoots out from the spot where it hits me. I feel crushed from the force and cut from its claws. I open my mouth and bite down hard on its shoulder. Its hair is so long and thick and its insides are protected by so much fat and muscle I know I haven't bitten deep enough to do real damage. I pull back anyway, ripping off as much flesh as I can manage.

It wraps its arms around me. It squeezes. My insides are pushed in on themselves. Pain. It beats its paws against my back. My flesh tears under its claws. I feel hot blood spilling down my back, matting my fur. I lift my front legs and hook them around its arms. I can't reach its head with my paws, but my claws are long enough. I scratch at its eyes.

It drops me and stumbles back. It puts its paws to its face. I lunge forward, claws first, aiming for its belly. I pierce the skin with my nails and tear the flesh apart. The bear howls. I come in with my mouth. I bite as hard as I can on whatever I can. I don't know what I get but it is slimy and pops in my mouth. The bear falls back landing hard on the ground. I don't check if its dead. I continue my assault. I slash with my claws and bite with my teeth until I have nearly made it out the other side.

I am panting. Tired, and injured. I pull back and sit down. I hurt. Pain. It is everywhere, all through me. I look from the deer to the bear. Both are dead. Both are meat. I am happy.

***

I wake up to the sound of chirping birds. A gentle breeze caresses my cheek. It blows a strand of my hair that tickles my face. My back is on fire. I open my eyes and squint against the rays of the sun shining through the tree leaves. Horror starts to shoot through me as I realize this is not the basement. I struggle to lift myself up on my arm, I've never felt so weak in my life. When I roll over, I am face to face with the death grimace of a grizzly bear. I scream and scurry backward as fast as I can. My hand lands in something wet and slips. I fall back and my head bumps a surface that is mushy and furry and crusty. I tip my head backward and see a deer with its whole torso torn open. Its guts are spilled out growing black and purple with rot. Flies buzz around the cavernous opening in its side. I scream again.

Panic gives me the strength to stand. I am in the woods between what looks like a half-eaten deer corpse and a half-eaten bear corpse and I am covered in blood. The t-shirt and sweatpants I put on last night are caked in filth and the shackle is still on my ankle. The chain lays uselessly on the ground at my feet, a leash without a hand to hold it. Clearly, The Change did not go as planned last night. Fear nearly stops my heart as I think of Dad. What happened to him? Is he okay?

A sudden shock on my thigh makes me shriek before I realize it's not a shock. It's a vibration. I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone almost laughing with relief. There are about a thousand missed calls and text messages from Dad. Including one that came in about five seconds ago. He's okay. I don't have much battery left. I quickly press the call back button. Dad picks up halfway through the first ring.

"Sammy!" he says.

"I'm okay, Dad," I tell him, half laughing and half crying. Probably sounding full crazy.

"Where are you? Are you okay?" he asks even though I just told him.

"I don't know, Dad. I'm in the woods somewhere and I think I killed a deer. And a bear."

He's silent for a moment. Then he lets out a relieved sigh. "You killed the chickens, too," he says affectionately.

"What?!"

"Don't worry about that," he instructs, "Turn your location on. I'm coming to get you."

I turn the location sharing on. "I only have, like, eight percent," I tell him.

There is a pause while he checks my location. "You're not too far." He is speaking in his happy voice, the one meant to keep me calm. "I'll be there in an hour, hour and a half tops. Just stay put. I'm going to hang up so you can save your battery. But call me if you need me."

"Okay," I say.

"And Sammy?" he says.

"Yeah?"

"I love you, kiddo."

"I love you, too."

I hang up the phone and sit back down on the leaf-strewn forest floor. It is a beautiful morning, warm and sunny. The birds are chirping and chipmunks are scampering up and down the trees. I remind myself that I am safe, and Dad is safe.

At least until the next full moon.